The ice is getting thinner
by AmyNY
Summary: Even Charles Xavier needed a break sometimes but as an old friend told him once, peace is never an option.


Summary: Even Charles Xavier needed a break sometimes but as an old friend told him once, peace is never an option. Charles/Erik friendship post XFC

Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

Author's note: This takes place sometime after X-men: First Class and it's AU since everything went according to plan at the beach and Professor X was never shot, he and Erik are still friends. Also I've taken some freedom with Charles' past since I haven't read the comics. I was re-watching that scene with Charles and Raven at the bar and this little drabble was born. Hope you guys like it.

-XFC-

Charles Xavier finished up his drink in a manner much too spry for a scotch that was almost fifty years old, earning himself a headache that was surely there to stay, which was all right with him as long as few other things went away. The scotch proved to be a great help in making things around him seem softer, muted - easier to bear in a way. It wasn't so loud in his head then. And even when that failed the headache proved to be a perfect distraction.

Even the best of men needed it from time to time. The distraction, not the headache.

He wasn't a child anymore, a bright but frightened little boy that couldn't silence the voices in his head. He's learned to control them years ago. It was that or an asylum. Then. A different lifetime, it seemed now. Still, every now and then the past had a way of roaring it's ugly head even to Charles Xavier and he had to use cheap tricks like this (a night in a crowded, all too loud bar, a bottle of scotch at hands length) to keep it at bay.

Everything was starting to blur, the sounds, the overwhelming noise in his head, even the people in front of him and his mouth stretched into a lazy smile as he stared at the blonde occupying a table close to the bar. He smiled and she stood up, suddenly right there, in front of him and he read her mind, unintentionally. It wasn't his fault, she was leaning in to whisper her name in his ear, Becky or Betty or something like that, her breath tickling his neck and he soon knew everything about her. He could easily charm her now, make a comment about the old French movies (her favorite), let a few more surprisingly common interest slip out on accident, chat a bit about it, impress her without actually even trying. Yet every time he looked in her direction there was something else falling into his line of vision making it impossible to enjoy the flirting and the company, however pleasant it seemed.

A few tables away, in the corner of the bar he saw his students, celebrating the official first anniversary of Xavier's School for gifted youngsters, crowded around a small table, joined by their teacher and co-founder of the school, Erik Lehnsherr. While the kids were laughing, animatedly discussing one subject or the other, he was sitting at one of the chairs, drinking beer and discretely watching over his best friend and ally.

Hank, one of the older children, seemed to share his mentor's worry, the same frown gracing his youthful features. But he was quickly distracted by Raven so Charles didn't pay it much attention. The rest of the kids didn't question their teacher, clearly finding an odd sense of comfort in a fact that even Charles Xavier wasn't perfect all the time. If they only knew…

In their eyes he was bigger than life, always there with the right answer, and most of the time they probably even forgot he was only human (with a few not so human abilities but human nonetheless). To them he was someone they aspired to be, even more so now that they actually saw he knew how to relax and have fun too. They found it cool. A few of them even came over for a bit to chat and toast, share a drink and a laugh.

Erik on the other hand, clearly didn't buy into it as easily and Charles didn't need to read his mind to see that. It irked him that he of all people felt he had a right to judge. He's done things much worse and far more illegal, Charles was sure of it (actually he _knew_ it). Besides he had a right to take the night off just like any other person on their team. Maybe more so. Being 'perfect' all the bloody time was quite honestly exhausting.

But who was he to complain, the little rich boy living in a giant mansion with parents that sent him to the best schools (and psychiatrists). He didn't spend his childhood at a concentration camp or on the street, feared by his own parents, like some of the people at that table did. Still, he had his own demons to fight. The ones that were just as real as Sebastian Show and as dangerous for his sanity as Show was for Erik's. His friend has barely managed to avoid falling over the edge (in a manner of speaking) that afternoon at the beach and even months later he struggled every so often to see the point in fighting his demons. Maybe that's why he felt he had the right to judge now, unaware that this drink and this night were the one thing stopping Charles from crossing that ledge himself and just letting go until there was nothing – nothing but silence.

They all had their own remedies and as different as they were, they were there for a reason.

With time everyone learned to accept it, Hank, Havoc, Scott, the new kids that were coming in almost daily now, even Erik. Raven already did years ago (But she was still there every night, by his side, cheering him on when he got the attention of the crowd with a stunt of an already drunken man or in a dark corner relaxing – but always close).

Still, that didn't stop his best friend from keeping an eye on him, just in case. Charles did the same. If he hadn't Erik might have been gone by now, crossing that edge, with only his anger as company. So he understood. But that didn't stop him from frowning every time he'd notice him sitting a few tables away. Only now instead of being bothered by it he'd simply raise his glass and nod his head knowingly at the old friend.

Years from now, he'll find a way to control his abilities altogether, to be able to have a quiet evening even in a crowded room but his best friend will still look at him worriedly every time he wrinkles his forehead or rubs his head because that's what friends do - have your back even when you don't ask them to. Just in case.

And many times in those years that will follow, he'll find Erik in his room on one of those particularly rainy, dark afternoons, his eyes as dark as the cloud filled sky, focused on the metal coin between his fingers, not actually touching it but always, always close. He'll make a joke, pretend he didn't see it and get him out of the house with some made up mission (a new mutant was discovered in Boston, New York, New Jersey, Cali…) and they'll both pretend they can't hear the voices, whispering and taunting, in a different way but still the same.

Most of the time the heaviest burden is the one you can't see, the one you can only feel with every fiber of your being, with every memory, every breath you take reminding you that the weight pressing down on your chest, the images in your head, the noise in the back of your mind are only yours to carry, to fight every single day from the moment you open your eyes and take that first waking breath till the moment you fall asleep (maybe even in your dreams – empty mansions, absent parents, heavy rain and mud between your fingers and that familiar loneliness that makes your bones ache). It's a battle that never ends but sometimes even that simple nod from across the room, the eyes hunted as yours remind you that there's someone who _knows_, who understands, willing to carry some of the weight when it gets too hard.

And you take another breath, order up a drink (just one more) and raise it up in a silent toast, taking the time to savor the taste this time.

"Cheers, my friend…"


End file.
